


Fire and Ice

by Buchanan (lish_the_fish)



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America (Comics), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Bathtubs, Blood Loss, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, F/M, Gen, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6871384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lish_the_fish/pseuds/Buchanan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky remembers the cold, the chill, the ice.<br/>Natasha remembers the heat, the sweat, the fire.</p><p>*****</p><p>My personal head cannon that, because Bucky doesn't go in cryofreeze anymore, his mind will short-circuit if he goes too long without getting really cold so he has to take cold baths every so often (but he really doesn't like them).</p><p>Also, this has Red Room background between Bucky and Natasha, so I didn't tag it with the movies</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Ice

Bucky remembers the cold. Oh, he remembers it so well. 

He remembers the fear that would grip his as the glass in front of him began to frost over, the pure terror that would churn in his gut as they cryostasis set in and he became defenseless. He remembers thinking to himself that every time would be his last--begging for it--praying desperately that something would happen in his “sleep” so that it would be the end. He remembers the hatred he felt every single time upon waking up: the pure, cold loathing that would consume him until his handler said the magic words: longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen, benign, nine, homecoming, one, freight car. Then he would be Bucky no more.

He remembers, in the last few seconds of being him, praying for his life to be over. 

That’s what he remembers the most.

 

* * * * *

 

“Oh, Jamie, what have you done this time?” Natalia Romanova tuts, fully aware that the bloody, slumped-over figure dominating Steve Roger’s small bathroom could no longer hear her. She goes over to him and inspects his wounds, and, upon seeing that they are no worse than last time, hoists him up by his armpits until he’s sitting on the lip of the modest tub.

The ex-soldier’s eyes are glossy and glazed over, unseeing. On a bad day, this would’ve frightened some people. Not Natasha. She simply begins stripping him of his outer clothing and then shucks it to the side, to clean up later. Once her James is down to his boxer-briefs, she adjusts him to where he’s lying down on his back in the chrome tub and turns the water to full cold. As it hits the white basin, Natasha dips her hand into the flow to close the drain. He's unresponsive until the first drop hits his skin, and then he's shivering, a full body thing that rocks him from his teeth to his toenails.

“I know, Jamie,” she continues in Russian, “but the last time I let you get out of taking your bath Steve shit bricks all over my nice carpet.” James doesn’t react. She hadn’t expected him to.

Once the tub is three-fourths of the way full (not all the way, because then if he starts thrashing it’ll get everywhere) she turns off the tap and begins to clean up the assassin’s mess. There’s blood all over the white tile from where James had tried to rip off his metal arm—the third time this month, JFC—and it’s also smeared onto the side of the toilet and along the plastic shower curtain. 

Natasha remembers her James from the horrible room they were both trapped in—him by mind, her by body—though even some days he can only recall her as Natasha and not his little Natalia. Just like he remembers the cold of the cryofreeze she remembers the heat of death, the sicking slickness of blood pouring over her hands, the reassuring weight of a loaded gun between her palms, the crystalline crunch of a neck snapping between her thighs. She, too, remembers it well, but she has had time to stop letting it break her. James hasn't; his mind is still raw with the fragmented memory of the killing. He’s newly born back into himself, and this means it’s going to be a while before he learns how to do normal things like sleep and eat again. He’s going to have to be weaned away from the idea that everyone is an enemy, and it’s going to take time. That’s okay. His support system is much stronger than Natasha’s when she got back, and she turned out just fine. In her soul she knows he will too.

She picks up James’s tattered clothes and deposits them in Steve’s plastic-lined hamper on her way out of the room, moving from there into the kitchen to get some tile cleaner and a rag. When she gets back in the bathroom, she sees that James isn’t having a bad reaction to the cold yet. That’s good, she tells herself. Sometimes, the baths, though necessary, trigger memories deep inside his mind that bring the other side of him—the Soldier—to the surface. Natasha feels satisfied that he seems to be handling it well this time. The easier the baths get for him, the easier all their lives get.

Natasha usually isn’t the one to clean up James’s mess, though that’s certainly something she’s used to. She only gets assigned to Winter-Soldier-Sitting-Duty when Steve’s on missions, which, lucky for her, has been getting more recent lately. It worries her to see the Captain throw himself back into his work like before, but she keeps her comments to herself. She figures it’s better that way. It’s not like anyone will listen to her until it's too late.

Natasha’s scrubbing away at the tile when she begins to notice a difference in James. First, it’s his eyes. Slowly, they start moving about the room, unable to focus, but at least a little more attentive. As the minutes pass by his eyes grow clearer, and the impulsively flexing metal hand is soon followed by the movement of the flesh one. By the time Natasha has all the blood wiped up he’s coherent, at least enough to recognize her when he looks at her.

“Sorry.” he says, his voice having the raspy tone that comes from either disuse or screaming. Natasha doesn’t let herself think of which one might be the cause.

“James, why can’t you just take your damn bath yourself?” she questions pointedly, little heat in her tone. At this the ex-soldier smiles ruefully, appreciating her bluntness. 

“You know why I can’t.” he mutters softly. Natasha just sighs and shakes her head. 

“I know.” she says. She stands, throwing the now bloody rag in the trash, and kisses the American on the forehead.

“Come on,” she tells him, reaching out a hand for him to take, “up and at ‘em.” 

Together, they use their genetically-enhanced strength to heave a soaking wet James out of the blood-stained water. Once he’s on his feet the man struggles to stand for a second, placing his free hand uncertainly on Natasha’s arm. After a few moments of recalibration he seems stable enough for her to stand back.

“You know where towels are, and just put on some of Steve’s clothes when you’re done. I’ll be in the kitchen.” she tells him, beginning to make her leave. As she exits James reaches into the minimalist cabinet above the toilet and pulls out a crisp, white towel, bringing it up to his head and rummaging it around in his har.

“Thank you, Natasha.” he whispers under her breath. They both pretend that, with her super-human hearing, she doesn’t notice.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, it's Buchanan M. again. So, I have this personal headcannon that I described up in the description about Bucky needing to be put back in something that resembles cryofreeze or else his mind glitches, so that's what this story is based off of. If this gets enough kudos/bookmarks then I may continue it with another chapter (possibly with Steve giving Bucky a bath... and then maybe Bucky finally giving himself one...?), but we'll see.
> 
> As always, feel free to comment. If you like this story, then I would love if you would bookmark it or maybe check out some of my other works. Any artwork I ever include is not mine, I just find it on google. 
> 
> Hope you liked it,  
> Buchanan M.


End file.
